


I can't expect you to linger and wait for me

by smudgythoughts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Depression, Episode: s13e04 The Big Empty, Gen, Hopeful Ending, M/M, POV Second Person, Whump, cas isn't in a good state of mind, castiel finds the strength in himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 08:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12678174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudgythoughts/pseuds/smudgythoughts
Summary: There’s a soothing presence clouding your thoughts, telling you to give in and let go, to close your eyes and drift off into sleep once more. You want to. Your limbs ache and your eyelids are heavy as lead.But then you think of green eyes and freckles and the curve of a smile. Of calloused fingers thumbing over the edge of a mixtape. Of his arms coming up and holding you tight as a soft “okay, alright” is whispered into the sweaty crook of your neck. Of the look of utter desperation on his face as a knife is plunged into your chest.A coda to 13x04.





	I can't expect you to linger and wait for me

You’re asleep. And it’s nice.

Life is constant motion, constant watching your back and making sure the people you care about are safe, constant trying your best and making mistakes and learning from them, but it’s never enough, never _enough_ , because you’ll never be anything but a failure.

It’s freeing, to let go of all those responsibilities and mistakes and ‘could haves’ and ‘should’ve dones’ and just _sleep_.

But contentedness never seems to last for long. Something’s poking at you, almost like someone is tickling your nose, and you’re forced to stir.

An endless darkness. That’s all you see when you open your eyes. It seems to stretch for miles, for eons, until the cosmos, the entire universe as a whole, are only bare little blimps in an everything.

There’s a soothing presence clouding your thoughts, telling you to give in and let go, to close your eyes and drift off into sleep once more. You want to. Your limbs ache and your eyelids are heavy as lead.

But then you think of green eyes and freckles and the curve of a smile. Of calloused fingers thumbing over the edge of a mixtape. Of his arms coming up and holding you tight as a soft “okay, alright” is whispered into the sweaty crook of your neck. Of the look of utter desperation on his face as a knife is plunged into your chest.

Sam, and his habit to duck his head when he smiles. Stacks of books spread out around him as he works through the night, patience unfailing. A person who’s been through _so much_ , and coming out the other side compassionate, and kind, and with hope.

Claire, with her sharp edges and leather jackets and tousled hair. Her pretending that she doesn’t care when she cares _so very much_. Hands tight around a stuffed toy you’d given her, the only thing you’d ever given her, beside death and pain and despair. Her mother crumbling to the ground, Claire letting out a little gasp in surprise, and you swinging her around and covering her eyes with your hand, a sense that you have to _protect_ and _keep safe_ running through you.

You never thought to think of all that you’re leaving behind. It hurts, knowing you won’t be there for them, to keep them safe.

Even in death, you’re still letting the people you love down.

 

You walk, because that’s the only thing you can do. You have hope, but not much of it.

It’s quiet. You used to hear angel radio, a constant low chatter in your ears. Or the ping of a text or call from Sam or Dean. Now there’s nothing except your thoughts, dismal and melancholy, which make for a sad companion.

You feel so very alone.

 

“You don’t want to go back,” it says, and you don’t want it to be true, can’t let it be true.

“Sam and Dean need me,” you say. _Need_ , not want. Like you’re a tool to be wielded. And discarded when no longer useful.

“Oh, save it. I have tip-toed through all your little tulips. Memories. Your little _feelings_.”

It knows. Knows you care more than you let on, aren’t the soldier you try to be.

“I know what you hate,” it snarls,

That one’s easy. You hate yourself. Hate who you were. A sorry excuse for an angel, with a crack in your chassis, never quite right. The Winchester taking you in, being your friend, the only one you’ve ever had, and you betraying them. All those mistakes, not easily washed away by rain, or tears, or “ _I’m sorry_ ”s. You hate who you are, and always will be.

“I know _who_ you _love_ ,” it whispers,

You love him. From a distance. Quietly. Painfully. With lingering touchings and “ _I’ll go with you_ ”s and love confessions moments before you were supposed to die. Because he is the righteous man, light and beauty and all things good in this world, and you are a burned out star.

“What you fear,” it growls.

You fear so much, that it would be faster to list what you didn’t fear.

“There is nothing for you back there.”

It’s right.

“Come on Castiel, wouldn’t you rather be a fond memory than a constant festering disappointment.”

It’s right. It's right. It’s–

_Wrong._

“I’m already saved.”

You’ve made mistakes, but you’ve done your best to make up for them, to be better, which means far more then making the mistake in the first place.

 

You smile into the blinding sunshine, and are happy to be alive. To be free.


End file.
